Part 4 of 7

Poole can hardly swallow from fear and disgust now, and so doesn't try. "You're not – not a Fenian, either," he rasps, feeling backwards with a foot so he doesn't run up against a house wall. "Their 'cause' is the thing and mass murder fits it better when it's spectacular, as in a bombing. Anderson and Munro would be disappointed. And you're not a doctor. A surgeon's work is recognizable, far more meticulous and tidy than you ever achieved –!"

He slips on a remnant of garbage and goes down on one knee; fortunate in one way as the motion takes him out of the full sweep of the knife, but not so fortunate as to escape completely. Richard Poole now has proof the knife at least is completely real, as it slices his jacket and a sliver of his upper arm too. An immediate bloom of blood is the response, and he has to roll across the Court and through a stream of liquid filth to escape.

"Ya funny little bobby-birds," the voice whispers tenderly. "Little birds thinkin' yawr can trap us." Poole rolls again as he feels the thing approach and lurches upright against another dank wall. If he is to die here, then he will face this abomination on his feet. "Ya puts me in mind of Abberline, y'do. A gent he was, soft-spoke, and fulla bright ideas."

"He was your favorite, was he?" Poole gets out between great gulps of foul air. "Not Helson or Reid, or even Moore?" He inches along the wall toward the passage.

"Awll peelers awr useless!" The thing shifts in an instant between its prey and the escape.

Poole recoils, but only an inch. He has to think, and to think he needs to keep it talking. "The upper echelons were, I grant you," he rattles, "with all that political infighting going on, but what about the rank and file? What about Sergeant Stephen White? What about Sergeants Badham, McCarthy, Godley, Pearce? What about William Thick, 'Johnny Upright'?"

The thing makes a sound like soft grunting and for a moment there might be a shade of red in its agitated interior. Poole follows up, inching away from the exit now, hoping to distract it enough to make a run for it possible. "What about the Constables? Tom Barrett, John Neil, Will Smith, George Simmons, Ed Watkins, Alf Long . . . patrolling day and night, daring you to show yourself? Every officer in England wanted to get his hand inside your collar, you bloody…"

"Awll awf 'em!" growls the thing, "Awll awf 'em blunderin' fools!"

"Were they?" Poole thunders back, forgetting escape for the moment. "Then why was there only a week between Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman but three weeks between Chapman and Elisabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes? And why was there over a month between them and Mary Jane Kelly?" Neither man nor thing notice how the women's names circle and hiss in the shadows as Poole continues, "We were closing in, weren't we? That's why you had to go to ground here. One more strike in the streets and we'd have had you!"

For a second the thing is just a shadow of a man, about Poole's own height, hat pulled low, the knife clutched in one hand. The eyes are hidden but a cruel mouth under a tatty mustache twists into a grimace. Then the writhing many-parted thing is back. "Well naow," it says, "it's not like they can get me here, in my world, innit? We have awll the time we can want, ya an' us, me sweet little duck. Yawr no prozzie but c'mon, let's play anyway."

Here

Pandemonium reigns in Camille's kitchen, which has now faded into an insubstantial shadow-place that eddies with voices and echoes from another world. Despite Zeta's best efforts, the circle is broken as Camille, Fidel, and Dwayne try to revive their boss. Cell phones are out but… who do they call? The Commissioner? A priest? Their mothers? One thing Camille knows for sure, she doesn't want Maman anywhere near this place!

Fidel is bent over his DI, desperately hoping for a miracle, then leaps back with an oath. "He's talking to someone! And someone's answering! The Chief's in trouble, bad trouble, there's a knife… Jack has a knife!"

That's all it takes. Camille rears up, thrumming with fierce intent. "OK, Zeta, play time's over! Send me in to bring him back or, so help me, I'll kill you slowly!"

Dwayne's eyes blaze up. "An' I'll help her! Don' think I won'!"

Zeta lifts frightened eyes. "I can't! The door's been shut from the other side, almost like a trap-door spider trick. I never heard a such a thing..." She swallows convulsively and mutters, "… but maybe this explains some whispers I've heard over the years 'bout mysterious deaths of woman clients and mediums bein' suspected a murder, except alla witnesses swear the medium couldna done it."

It is at this precise moment of a lull in the conversation that a soft noise is heard. Everyone looks down in time to see Richard's jacket sleeve zip open as a thin slice in his exposed bicep spurts blood. The team jerk in shock and stare but it is Zeta who suddenly sits up straight and sniffs the air as if catching an elusive scent. "Itza blood trail, I kin taste it! Whatever's happenin' over there, this is our way in!" She snaps authoritative fingers. "Everyone, sit down! Hold hands again, 'specially his!"

The team drops in unison, Fidel whipping out his handkerchief to tie a swift binding on his Chief's arm before everyone catches up hands, the circle once more unbroken. Camille flinches at the feel of Richard's lifeless fingers but focuses on Zeta like her life depends on it.

Zeta nods and closes her eyes. "Quick now, Camille, think hard on him an'…"

Camille's eyes slam shut. She needs no further instruction. RICHARD! I'M COMING!

Then a new voice shoves Zeta's words aside, startling everyone. "Hulloh, you lot! Is there another copper there?"

Camille bugles, "Yes! Me and the two men are police! Take us to him! NOW!"

The voice shouts back, "About bloody time there were a woman peeler! I kin only take one so I'm takin' YOU, deary!" Camille gasps as she is yanked violently forward to collapse like a rag doll and join Richard on the table top.

Fidel jolts in his chair, protesting at the top of his lungs, "Wait a minute, I'm the youngest and strongest, it should be me!" He whirls on Zeta. "Bring her back! Send me, I should be the one!"

Dwayne keeps hold of Camille's cooling hand and levels killer eyes at Zeta. "You better send us BOTH in right now! I don' wanna face her Maman t' tell her Camille's lost inna 'nother dimension an' I didn' do nuthin' t' help!"

Zeta's face wavers between horror and an attempt at bravado as she sputters out commands to the spirit world that are met with cold blankness. She's no longer in control of the séance, if she ever was. As far as anything Zeta Akande can do, the island's brightest daughter along with her 'magic man' are as good as lost forever.

Over There

Camille comes to, woozy and sick, kneeling in a wet, sooty alleyway on sharp cobbles with a cold rain tapping the back of her neck. She climbs to her feet painfully to look up at the blackness outlined in dull gaslight. Nothing in her extensive undercover career has prepared her for this; a maze of broken brick and foul smells. Where is this place? Where's Richard?

She shields her eyes from the drizzle and casts about, too preoccupied to notice the rain doesn't wet her, nor are her fashionable flats stained with mire. Above on the battered brick walls there are canted street signs, telling her she is at the corner of Commercial Road and White's Row, names meaning nothing to her. Which way is she to go?

Noiselessly, a shade or stain passes through the damp patch of light under the nearest lamp post and makes for her, stopping only when it's close, too close for Camille's comfort, but she will not withdraw. She's here to rescue the cornerstone of all her thoughts and hopes. Nothing will turn her back until she's found him. She staggers and coughs out, "Are you the one who brought me here?"

For answer the shade rushes at her, enveloping her in the feel of cumbersome skirts around her legs. Some form of corset wraps up her ribs and a ghostly bonnet drops over her hair. It's all done so quickly Camille has no time to shriek out, because something, or someone, else is there too now, more than one – five, in fact. Camille feels their anger and desperation welling up inside her like bile.

Aye, a voice in her head whispers, I'm Mary Kelly, luv. We're here t' help, me an' these others what fell t' Saucy Jacky's knife. Our spirits is tied t' this place.

Tied here, trapped here, damned here, the others moan, not in despair but simmering in hatred. Carn't escape this hell-pit! They only remembers us a'cause of 'IM. We wants vengeance! We wants t'be free!

Amid the clamour of their voices and emotions Camille takes tight hold of her own, setting herself to do only what her training dictates. She squares her shoulders and nods. "I'm here to take back the man Jack stole from us. If anyone can get you justice, it's Detective Inspector Richard Poole. Where is he? He must be rescued before it's too late. He's already been cut."

Aye, an' 'is blood brings you t' us! Mary's thoughts rise in a fury of anticipation. We heard yer man call our names an' we woke; Poll, Liz, Kate, Annie, 'tis our chance now! Miller's Court, woman copper, come! In a second then, Camille's body willingly bears the posse of women racing to the dark heart of Whitechapel where yet another murder is underway.

END – part 4

Notes:

The Fenians were a secret political organization in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, dedicated to the establishment of an independent Irish Republic. They acted on two principles: that Ireland had a natural right to independence, and that independence could be won only by armed revolution. This included bombings in London. That the Ripper was a Fenian intent on sowing terror amongst the lower classes is just one of the theories highly placed police officers like Assistant Commissioners Robert Anderson and James Munro worked on, while ordinary officers patrolled Whitechapel in 18- to 24-hour shifts.

There are too many names involved in the real-life hunt for the Ripper to list them all, or to do biographies here. Details can be found in many places online for those who are curious.